Confessions of a Half-Breed
To slay or not to slay: that is the question:
Whether it is nobler for the mind to suffer
The constant slanderous remarks of insignificant people,
Or to defend oneself by fighting back and ending them. To fight--to kill--
No more-- and by killing to say we end the torrent of hate, and the never ending emotions that follow! This is a request
Devoutly wished for. To fight, to kill--
To die--perchance to meet fate: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what fate shall come
When we have drifted off this present life,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who but half-breeds bear the whips and scorns of time,
The peasant's wrong, the lord's humility,
The pangs of detested love, results of long delay,
The insolence of hope, and the pains
That patience merits of unworthy people,
When he himself might take his own life
With a simple knife? Who would feel better
To only live out his own life,
But that the fear of life after death,
The unknown realm, from where
No man returns, confuses the minds of all
And makes us angry to bear those ills we have,
Rather than to seek help from an unknown friend?
Thus this hesitation makes cowards of us all,
And thus the conflict continues
Is sicklied in his thoughts,
And disturbs his actions in the peak of the moment,
With this consideration his mind is subdued,
And ceases the actions about to happen--Innocent are you
That you are to understand me? Angel from a distant world
Remember me.